


All of the Words I Want to Say

by Gigglepud



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (I think?), Estranged Found Family, Gen, Maglor's Wandering, Music, Noldolante, Not quite a redemption arc, Post-Fall of Eregion, Second Age, The life of a wandering musician, but they'll get there eventually, mostly canon-compliant, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:01:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26193073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigglepud/pseuds/Gigglepud
Summary: In the second age, Maglor Feanorian is a ghost story.So Elrond sends a young music protégé ghost hunting.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel & Maglor | Makalaurë
Comments: 10
Kudos: 56
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	All of the Words I Want to Say

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rhapsody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhapsody/gifts).



> Written for the Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang inspired by [Rhapsody's](/users/Rhapsody)'s wonderful art piece, [Music was my first love](https://www.deviantart.com/rhapsodybrd/art/Music-was-my-first-love-853602991). 
> 
> Many thanks to the TRSB mods for organising the event and Rhapsody for the amazing inspiration. Most of all, a million thanks also to my beta-reader, [sea_hag_dominion](/users/sea_hag_dominion/), for her endless patience, encouragement and detailed feedback. Any mistakes are my own, but without her, there would be plenty more.

The thing about Lord Elrond Peredhel of Imladris, Son of Great Earendil the Mariner, Herald to King Gil-Galad, Bearer to a banner with an eight-pointed star, is that he’s secretly mad.

This is the verdict a young Sindar would reach after two weeks on the road, almost 200 leagues from home, on a mission to study music and learn the trade of a minstrel.

The problem doesn’t begin in Imladris, though it’s the first stop of his journey. Not the newly-founded peaceful valley where soft sounds of lyres can always be heard, matched to the distant rumbling of the falls.

For all that Lord Elrond and his entire household seemed entirely preoccupied by a planned visit to Lindon, the kindly lord still spared time to the young enquiring elf.

It was an extraordinary two weeks where Telir marvelled at brick houses and concrete arches, adjusted to the Noldorin accent while discovering a shared love for the trees and waters that surrounded Imladris. He spent time in the company of great musicians like Lindir, browsing through Elrond’s libraries for songs he’d never heard before.

But then he was sent away.

It wasn’t a dismissal, though later, Telir would wonder if he might have been luckier if it was.

Elrond had invited Telir to his study, reassured gently that he wasn’t stopping Telir’s education. He had a large book on his desk, tracing his fingers over the Quenya writing on the cover, which Telir could not decipher.

“What you are looking for does not dwell in Imladris, young one,” He’d said softly. He pulled out a map, tapping on Imladris then traced a path to the river. “You have to head West, go down the River of Bruinen, then follow it into Gwathlo, until you reach the coast.”

So, Telir went, with no thought to question the wise until he was two weeks out of Imladris, drenched in mud with hair tousled by the wild winds.

He encountered his first humans in a band of travelling nomads from whom he’d acquired a large cloak and ordered Telir to be careful of bandits roaming around. Only for his second encounter in a small hunting camp to turn his expectations on its head, chasing him away with accusations of being bad news or a spy for local bandits.

It left Telir conflicted, suddenly uncertain whether this was some grand adventure or just a fool’s errand where he’s in over his head in a world too big and too foreign for him. What exactly was he even looking for?

By the time Telir reaches the coast, his only thoughts are of a soft bed and a warm bath. But as another week passed and Telir is no further in finding out what he’s looking for, the sighting of the next fishing village sends a heavy rock into the pits of his stomach.

He’d learnt that these people have no interest in music beyond it being lively entertainment after mealtimes, and certainly would not know of any device or knowledge that could help a young musician master his craft.

Instead of heading into the village, he walks closer towards the sea. The soft sand in the beach sink at each step, tiring him easier, but having the rhythm of waves crashing nearby calms his soul.

He keeps his distance from the piers, eyeing uncertainly at the boats lined and docked with the last minute rush of packing at sunset.

He picks a large rock to perch upon, turning to watch the ocean blend into the sky in the distant horizon. He pulls out his lute, his dearly beloved companion that has accompanied him through all of this, and started to play.

It is small comfort in a world that was clearly too big for the likes of a young elf.

He sang, because that’s all he’s really known.

“Maybe I should just stay here for the night,” he mutters, clutching his lute close to his chest at the end of a song.

That’s when the waves suddenly roar to life, a large column of water crashing high onto the beach, almost at Telir’s feet.

Telir jumps from his rock, stepping back with shock. The water recedes into the sea, but in such quick speed that Telir can’t be sure it won’t be back with twice the force.

“Fine." He takes it for the sign it might or might not have been; if perhaps even Ulmo disdains his company for the night.

He turns and resigns himself to entering the fishing village, to find a place to stay the night before he reconsiders his entire journey. It’s been a wild month but maybe it’s finally time to go home. 

That's when he hears it, a soft melody drifting through all the way to the edge of the village, over an unnatural silence. Telir’s grip on his lute tightens, he can feel it. It’s the same ambient power as when the moon’s rays touch the treetops and the entire forest seems to awaken.

The fishing town is small enough that he can almost see from one side all the way to the other side of town. It doesn’t take long for Telir to follow the music - and it’s origin is obvious the moment he sees it.

A pub near the centre of town; it’s the only place crowded with people, capturing a crowd standing outside, poking their head through the window to take a glance.

Music, so beautiful, tender, melancholic, like he’d never heard before. Something thrums in resonance with his heart, calling to him the way Lothlorien’s music did, the way the sea did, the way Lord Elrond did the one time he entertained the thought of playing the harp. But it rings deeper than any other instance of music Telir had ever heard before.

 _This_. Is this what he was looking for?

Telir ran the last few steps to reach the tavern, entering to catch the very end of the song. A minor chord echoing as a performer at the front of the room released his fingers from his harp. The room held its collective breath, entranced.

Telir recognises the magic that had enveloped in this room. Not the kind of intentional spellwork or enchantment his kin would sing into trees and flowers and all things living; not the kind he’d seen Lord Elrond’s people weave into their crafts. This is the kind of deep magic that wasn’t purposeful, but is forced into existence from the overwhelming emotions and ardour that existed between one and their calling.

Wrapped in a bubble of awe and respect, the men - rough, strong, fishermen- with red-rimmed eyes are barely holding back a sniff. The moment breaks only when the barkeep starts the first round of applause, and everyone follows suit.

The musician breaks into a smile. He stood and bowed, then -as if he, too, wasn’t impervious to the effects of his spell - said with a shaken voice. “Right, how about something lighter, now? You’ve indulged me enough, now let’s get on with your drinking songs, shall I?”

With a few quick notes, just like that, the mood turns joyous. Chatter gradually returns, and the bard sings some familiar tunes and some that Telir has never heard. Telir finds a seat at the front, his eyes not moving from the musician as he waits out the rest of his set.

None of them captures the audience in the same way, though his voice is clearly experienced and beautiful. The moment was over.

Yet, even from singing light drinking songs, it’s undeniable that the musician has a great voice, a wide-range tenor with deft fingers for self accompaniment.

It's late into the night when he finally finishes and the tavern is mostly empty. The musician moves to a corner of the room, to look after his instrument as the barkeep rushes over with a drink.

Telir knows the exact moment the musician registers his presence. It’s when he drops his cleaning cloth as he hurriedly shoves his harp into a cloth cover.

“Wait! Please don’t leave!”

The musician pauses, turning slowly to look at Telir. Then, with a sigh, he takes a large sip of his drink before sitting back. “What do you want?”

Telir looks at the musician, it’s clearer in the dark corner of the tavern that he’s an elf, because of the way his eyes glow so brightly despite the dim candlelit evening. He’s old - not just in the wisdom he seems to protrude. There are lines on his face, crow’s feet at the edge of his eyes, and Telir’s not sure he’s ever seen any elf that looks so physically aged.

Telir straightens his posture. “Please let me be your apprentice!”

The musician tilts his head, looking genuinely confused for a moment before he notices the lute Telir has slung across his back.

As understanding dawns, his reply is swift. “No.”

Telir stilled. He hadn’t prepared for such a blunt rejection. The challenge, he thought, was to find whatever - or, as it turned out, whoever - it was Elrond sent him out towards. The hardest part should have been over now; he hadn’t considered he could be turned away now.

“Please! I want to learn how to write music and then perform music as you do! How did you captivate everyone like that? The song you were singing, that was so beautiful, won’t you teach me it?” Telir blurted out, mouth racing faster than his thoughts could follow. “I promise, I am a fast learner! And I work very hard!”

The musician shook his head, “That is great, but you will have better luck learning from minstrels and bards.”

“Aren’t you-?”

“Not in the way you think. No, this is not a profession by choice.” The musician took another long sip of his drink. “I have nothing to teach.”

“That doesn’t matter! I want to be able to sing like you do, won’t you teach me how you do it?” Telir said. “And you surely do, because Lord Elrond said you do!”

“Elrond?” The musician sits up.

Telir’s thoughts lapse, unprepared for the sudden shift in attitude. “Well, yes, he sent me!”

The musician seemed to actually consider, giving Telir another look up and down. Telir bit his lip, his heart in his throat as he waited for the musician’s verdict.

“What's your name?”

At Telir’s answer, the musician humms noncommittally, and it’s another long moment of silence before he speaks again.

“I’m Maglor.” An expectant look crosses the musician’s expression, as if he was waiting for some kind of reaction.

Telir stares blankly back, before breaking out into a smile. “Nice to meet you, Maglor!”

There’s another silence, Maglor studying Telir’s expression intently, before something clears in his own expression. “You said you’ve been to see Elrond, why didn’t you learn from him? There is nothing I can teach you that he cannot.”

Telir isn’t sure about that, Elrond may be skilled with an instrument, but everyone knew he was more a scholar and a warrior. He appreciated the creative arts, but he’s never shown any inclination for the lifestyle of a bard. He says as much, then shrugs, “He’s busy anyway. He’s a Lord presiding over Imladris! He’s busy enough as it is, with the whole preparation of returning to Lindon for the Oceans Festival.”

“How long did you stay with Elrond?”

“About two weeks.”

The musician nodded to himself. “Alright. It’s late, you should rest.”

Telir was taken aback by the sudden end to the conversation. The musician didn’t give him any time to protest, walked past him to find the barkeep to room for the night. He asks for a two-person room.

“Wait, hold on!” Telir races to follow, “So can I apprentice with you?”

Maglor looks away, “No. But it is dangerous in these parts, you’ve heard the rumours about bandits? I’m heading up the coast towards the direction of Lindon and there will be elvish settlements along the way. I’ll keep you company until then.”

Telir’s heart plummeted, “What? But I want to train with you!”

Maglor shook his head. “For now, maybe. We will have time, and I will share with you the music I know, as we journey together. But in time you will understand, when you meet the other elves. You will want another teacher, then.”

“What will I understand?”

“Go to sleep, we have an early day tomorrow.” 

True to his word, Maglor wakes Telir at dawn the next day. He takes some food and retrieves Nemror, his packhorse, and then they are out of the city before the sky was truly lit.

Maglor pulls out his small harp a few hours into their journey, and they slow their pace so he can play and walk at the same time. They are light songs, some about a ridiculous King of the West and the day his son hid his crown, some drinking songs, and a cheery tune designed for the road.

Maglor doesn’t sing the song from the night before. Doesn’t play anything that’s remotely serious, only shakes his head lightly. Claims those don’t make pleasant company on the road.

It doesn’t matter, though, because even the light whimsical songs are still great. Somehow, even the happiest song is tinted by the slightest quiver of melancholy, when it comes from Maglor’s rich, deep voice.

Telir loses himself to a long, ridiculous ballad about an Elven Lord and his stumbling courtship of an Edain Lady. It brings him to laughter the way she would be unimpressed by his attempts to flirt and then, almost to tears when she has to leave him, after though she did love him, because her love and duty to her people were greater.

Telir wants to know how to write songs like that.

Maglor pauses, fingers stilling the last note on his lyre.

“Anyone can write as long as they put their mind to it. This one was written by an Elven smith; never played an instrument, though he’d taken apart a few. He wrote this song to annoy his brother.”

There was something about the distant look in Maglor’s eyes, a small smile tugging his lips. A thought tugs at the edge of Telir’s mind. This is the look Telir’s mother has when she tells Telir of the foolish acts of his father in his parents’ youth.

“No way - you’re not telling me this is based on a real story!”

“But of course, all the greatest songs draw inspiration from _somewhere_. Be quiet now, and I will sing you another - written long ago when The Trees still stood. Another brother of theirs, composing for his ridiculous childhood crush.”

Telir nods and listens to a song that wasn’t ridiculous or foolish at all, about long, tender black locks that framed brilliant eyes. A daring huntress who shone like the stars, unlike the rest of her family. Telir questioned whether insulting her family was the best way to woo someone, and when Maglor guffawed, Telir figured not.

There is still a quality in the song though, that Telir didn’t know how to emulate. “No wonder, I could never match the music written from the days of the Trees.”

Maglor rests an arm on Telir’s shoulder, squeezes. “No, child, it’s not about that. It’s about intention. And the emotions behind it. Write a song not just for the sake of writing a song, but about the message behind it, and the things you want people to know. Music is a powerful channel to share your thoughts and your truths with the world.”

Telir mulls these words over.

“What about the song from last night? That first song? Who wrote that and what message did they want to tell?”

It is the wrong question to ask. Maglor drops his hand and walks ahead, plucking dissonant notes on his lyre. Telir won’t be getting another word out of Maglor any time soon. 

  
  


The next few days go by in a similar fashion. They make their way along the coast; Maglor refuses to go too far inland unless there’s a necessity.

“It’s comforting,” he gestures at the wide expanse of water.

Telir thought he’d agree any other day, but the dark clouds had been hinting at a storm for hours and the ocean swirled dangerously as it crashed up the coast.

Maglor remains largely indecipherable, avoiding questions of his past and what he was doing with the ease of someone who has not had proper social interaction in centuries. Which is to say - terribly. He simply stops talking, commands silence over them, and doesn’t acknowledge Telir for half a day.

He doesn’t really explain the problems either, Telir never knows where the line is. His family, Telir has learnt, are out of bounds. Don’t mention the mother, don’t mention the father, _never_ talk about the wife, and _maybe_ he has brothers but Telir doesn’t dare ask the questions to confirm. But then there are topics like Lord Elrond, which Maglor would be intrigued about, until Maglor’s connection to Lord Elrond comes up, and suddenly the packhorse will be between them and there’s no opportunity for conversation.

Telir isn’t stupid though, he likes the way Maglor explains the stories behind some of his songs, listens intently about the Elven Lords from the sunken Beleriand, of these songs that Telir had never even heard of before, and he’s trying to put the pieces together.

“Are you a Lord?” Telir asks suddenly, one evening by the fire.

Maglor tenses, and Telir thinks, for a moment, it’s another one of the topics that will go into his list of taboos. Then Maglor laughs.

“Lord of what?” He gestures around them, on the beach, the waves lapping softly behind him. “The sand and the wild winds? Of this small stretch of beach between two settlements?”

He laughs bitterly, but Telir notes it’s not quite a denial.

“Lord of Keeping Secrets,” Telir mutters. The smooth thump on his shoulder pushes Telir closer to the _yes, he does have brothers_ camp.

Though credit where credit is due, if the topic stays on about music, Maglor will answer any question that Telir asks. Maglor has unreasonable patience as a teacher, taking his time to explain points, sharing stories to let the lesson stick, and guides with such practice that Telir is now almost 90% sure on the brothers question.

It had surprised Telir, how easily Maglor leaned into his teaching position. He has an ease with the lute, even though it’s not his primary instrument. He shares a few songs of his and explains how he came up with each. And when he got into it, his eyes would light up, so unlike the tired, old elf that Telir had first run into at the inn.

Until another distant settlement comes into view, a small elvish village.

Maglor stops in the distance, looking down from a forested hilltop at the splatter of houses in the valley.

“This is as far as I’ll go, but if you go, you will find elves you can trust. They can send you with their messengers, to Lindon or wherever else you want to go. You will be safe with them.”

Telir whips his head to face Maglor, who is a posture of calm.

“What? You’re leaving me here?!”

Maglor lifts a shoulder, “That has always been the plan, hasn’t it? I’m not one for having pupils follow me around, but I certainly would not have left you alone in an unfamiliar village. Here, at least, the elves can be trusted.”

“I don’t want to go! I still want to stay with you!”

Maglor stares at Telir, and something is racing through his mind that Telir doesn’t understand before he reluctantly concedes.

“Fine, I will not leave you behind. I want you to go in, explore the village for a while, spend time at the inn, talk to the elves there. If you really don’t want to stay, then at least you can bring some food and replenish my bandages on your way out. I will wait for you until sunset.”

Telir narrows his eyes, “You’re just going to leave as soon as I turn my head!”

“I have stayed with you and looked after you all these days, am I not owed some trust in return? I won’t swear because - well, I don’t do that anymore. But I have also not let you run around alone, and would not let you risk your safety now.” Maglor grabs his grey cloak and wraps it around Telir’s shoulders. “Here, an incentive of sorts. On the off chance you would like to continue this journey with me, I would not like to lose my own cloak. Though, admittedly, I will not die without this. If you stay, you don’t need to come out and return this to me. If you’re not here by sunset, I will understand, and go.”

Telir goes, but warily, turning back often to Maglor for as long as the musician was still in sight. Maglor was giving up too easily, and something wasn’t right about that. He pulls his hood over his head for comfort as he finally enters the small elvish village.

They’re sailors, this much is clear as soon as Telir enters. He wanders between one fishing shop to another mast-making shop, looking for an inn or a pub where he could take an actual bath before he runs the errands that Maglor wants him to do.

The elves he meets aren’t helpful, they glance at him and move to the other side of the street. There are glares and murmurings following wherever he goes, and mothers pull their children close when Telir approaches.

By the time Telir reaches a pub, he has no idea why Maglor would ever think he would want to stay. There’s an interrupted silence as soon as Telir enters, that doesn’t break even after Telir removes his cloak and self-consciously edges towards the counter.

“I’d just like some food please, and maybe an opportunity to wash.” Telir says wearily. Somehow, just the short walk around the village has drained him for energy more than an entire week walking along the windy coast with Maglor.

The barkeep squints at Telir. But all barkeeps are trained not to let potential customers slip through their fingers. “Aye, a drink and a meal coming up, young lad.”

“Thank you!” Telir is so relieved, he slumps down onto a seat at the counter.

The barkeep pauses on his way to the back, eyes softening as he looks at Telir’s slumped form. “Lad, you’re alright? Don’t let them get to you,” he gestures to the room at large, indicating to the others. “We’re a friendly lot, usually, but-” he leans closer, “-we don’t like lone travellers. Not around these parts.”

Telir nods, he knows where this is going, “Right, because of the bandits?”

The barkeep has a strange look in his eyes. “Well, that too, but no. We can deal with bandits, we’re stronger than you think. But there’s rumours - of long nights when the moon is out, a lone traveller, prowling in the night.”

A heavy dread begins to form at the bottom of Telir's stomach. “Who?”

The barkeep shivers, eyes darting around before he says in a scandalous whisper, “The _Kinslayer_.”

The word sends an ugly feeling down Telir’s spine. He could stop now, nod and say that he understands that he would be more careful in the future, not travel alone anymore. But another part of him is pushing to know more, he _needs_ to know more.

And he hears for the first time, the story of what Maglor Feanorian has done.

It’s the worst of it, surely tales that have twisted as they passed from mouth to mouth. An elf that would slay another elf, and revel in the bloodshed. Brothers that were fuelled by greed and hatred, jealous of the Elven kings, always plotting to get more power. Who defied the Valar and Morgoth alike.

Telir suddenly regrets ordering food, he’s not sure he can keep any of it down.

“What happened to him?”

The barkeep shrugs, “He’s around, alright. Escaping judgement and penance even today, hoarding his sinful deeds like badges of honour. Corrupting lost elves, stealing them - he’d done it before, you know? Bless Varda for Lord Elrond and his late brother Elros’s lucky eventual escape.”

Telir is almost certain he’d stepped into an alternative world, none of this can be the truth.

“Are you sure?” Telir says, voice weak with disbelief. “I’ve seen Lord Elrond before, he doesn’t seem so badly off.”

“That’s because he’s escaped the Kinslayers, lad. The kinslayer only ever roams the coast - have you ever wondered why? I’m sure if he ever lets Elrond catch sight of him, well, then bless the day because Mandos’ Hall will finally have the full set of brothers.”

Telir’s blood goes cold.

“I- I need to go,” he blurts, leaving behind a few coins for the food and runs out. He makes it out of the pub and into the alleyway beside the building.

Telir’s head is pounding, the voice of the barkeep continuing to echo his words in his mind. Is that the truth? What is the truth? It seemed so long ago that Telir was in Imladris- had Lord Elrond hated Maglor? Why did he send Telir to Maglor? What exactly _was_ Maglor doing, spending all his time roaming the coast like a ghost? Or, perhaps there are two Maglors roaming the coasts of Middle Earth, surely _his_ Maglor was not a kinslayer?

Telir pulls his cloak tighter around his shoulders, and as the grey cloak falls in front of him, he stares at it. Maglor gave him his cloak, this old, worn grey cloak, before coming into this village.

Why was it suddenly so difficult to remember what Maglor said, before he’d sent Telir to this village? Telir could feel it, the answers he’s looking for forming as a vague fog at the edge of his mind, but the dots won’t connect.

It made no sense that Maglor, a _blood thirsty, elf-killing monster_ would send Telir away into a village, does it?

Except, Maglor had not only pushed for Telir to enter, he was confident that Telir would no longer stay with Maglor once he’d gone. Maglor had known exactly what would happen when Telir entered, cloaked in that grey, travelled-worn cloak, no less.

But why didn’t Maglor just tell him the truth? Why bother hiding anything when this was the end goal all along?

Telir wants to do what he has always done in situations like these, turn to his trusty lute and block out all the confusion in the world outside. But Maglor has penetrated his head, the only music in his mind are songs that Maglor had taught, and that only sets his mind whirring even more.

These songs that Maglor loves, that he sings for the comfort of the journey, if he pieces them together would Telir be able to identify the gaps in the picture?

Two Elven Lords; a smith and a miner, how did he learn to sing? If he never played an instrument in his life, where did he acquire the instruments to take apart?

It could have been any bard, any musician, of course, but Maglor has said more than once that the best way to tell a story is through song. He has never spoken of his past, of his family, of anything in words, but does that really mean he has never shared anything with Telir?

Telir lets the time get away from him, when he finds a secluded spot in the village and plays through the new repertoire he’d learn from the older elf, withdrawing into his memories of everything that had occurred since they’d met.

He races back to the hill where Maglor said to be waiting, just before sunset. In the time he was gone, Maglor had evidently set up camp, and is halfway through packing it all up, with Nemror ready to go.

Telir throws Maglor’s cloak back into Maglor’s face.

“Leaving so quickly without me?” Telir demands.

Maglor has a scowl to his face, but it doesn’t hide the widened eyes that betray his surprise. “I didn’t think you’d return.”

Telir rolls his eyes, “I said I would. Does this mean you’ll take me now?”

Maglor hums noncommittally, “Did you really talk to all the people? Where’re my food and bandages?”

Telir’s mouth drops. “Oh - I forgot.”

Maglor waves a hand dismissively, “That’s not important, I have enough for the next few days.”

Of course, Maglor didn’t need any of these things from the elven village. Telir looks at Maglor, and Maglor looks back at Telir expectantly. It occurs to Telir that he must be the one to start this conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“It’s not exactly a friendly conversation opener, nor something I’m particularly inclined to talk about.” Maglor responds stiffly, putting his attention back to folding up the bedroll he’d unfolded to sit on during the wait.

Telir opens his mouth - he has so many questions he wants to ask. But he can’t form the words. He’s staring at the elf in front of him, trying to reconcile the heartless monster with the musician singing of childish pranks and courtships.

“Will you sing me the song, now? Songs from _after_ , the sad ones you refused to sing before.”

“No.”

“You said they weren’t good for the road, but we’re not on the road now! Why can you sing to the men from that fishing village but not to me?”

Maglor lets out a frustrated noise, as he unleashes the packhorse. “Because it’s sunset and I’m going now.”

“You are taking me with you, right?” Telir says, alarmed by the force which Maglor suddenly tugs the horse forward. “What’s the rush? Why do you keep running away?!”

“I’m not running away,” Maglor retorts forcefully. “And why do you keep recklessly following strangers? Didn’t you hear the stories from the elves? Do you know what it means to be travelling with a _kinslayer?_ ”

Telir squares his shoulders, puts his chin up. “I heard them and they’re wrong. Or, they are partly right, but they don't know everything. They don’t. Because I was sent to you by _Lord Elrond_. And between this small outback village, you, and My Lord? I will trust Lord Elrond’s word every time.”

Maglor eyes perk up at the mention of Elrond, as Telir has noticed he does every time.

Telir takes this as the good sign it must be and continues, “So teach me your song, please? I’ve heard the story from the elves here, and I’m not taking it lightly, I promise. There’s a part of me that is terrified, that you have pointed your sword against kin and acted. But I refuse to believe that it means you are a heartless bloodthirsty beast, because I don’t believe a heartless elf’s songs would move men as you did, because even a kinslayer must have his own side of the story, to sing of his brothers and family with the fondness that you do, to have the respect and admiration from Lord Elrond that he’d recommend you against all other bards in all of Middle Earth. Let me know your story.”

Maglor stares intently at Telir, expression unreadable, but Telir doesn’t budge. This isn’t something he wants to step down from. At last, Maglor bows his head, and Telir knows he has won.

“Fine,” Maglor allows. “But only if we get going now. We’ve wasted enough time here and now we’re running out of time.”

Telir whips his head up, suspicious of another excuse, but Maglor has a hardened glint in his gaze, as if his thoughts have already moved onto somewhere else.

“Wait - what?”

“You said that Elrond was taking half his people back to Lindon, for the Oceans Festival,” Maglor starts conversationally, later. His eyes are dark as they stare determinedly at the road ahead. “Come on, you’ve heard the talk. There’re bandits about, men who’d been displeased by the Numenoreans’s arrival. There’s only two ways this can go, either the bandits hear about Elrond’s parade and they plan an ambush, or Elrond hears from passing villages about the bandits, and the idiot would go off charging into the mess himself just because he can.”

“I’m sure Lord Elrond can handle himself.”

“He’ll think that,” Maglor muttered, “He’s going to send me to Mandos just from his recklessness. He hides it well, but without the other two- his brother, I mean, to compare, it turns out he’s a little rascal too.”

Telir observed Maglor’s ranting in awe, he wasn’t sure he’d seen Maglor so lively in the whole week they’d been travelling together.

This, for sure, was not an elf that parted with Lord Elrond in bad terms.

“Fine,” he said, “Will you sing me that song after, then?”

Maglor sighed, “Fine. I already agreed, didn’t I? Doesn’t seem like I can get rid of you any time soon.”

Maglor heads North with impressive speed, then, he goes inland. Telir almost trips over himself in surprise, but Maglor only rolls his eyes.

“I’m not allergic,” he scoffed, but he does look back at the ocean one more time before he goes.

Telir wonders what draws him to sea - is it West, where he comes from? Or where the sunken continent was?

In a few days, Maglor catches the first glimpse of the bandit camp. It’s a sprawling band of men that looks confident in their weaponry.

Maglor shook his head with a sigh, “If only they turned their weapons to Sauron instead.”

They went around them, going further ahead until they could find where Lord Elrond’s people were. They were a loud group of elves, Telir thought he could hear them from miles away.

“Come on,” Maglor said, motioning Telir back into the depths of the woods. “We’ll find a place to set up camp, and you can look after Nemro. If you stay silent, no one will think to come this way”

“You’re not taking the whole camp on, are you?” Telir demanded, alarmed.

Maglor laughed, as he removed a sword and a bow from the packhorse. “Of course not, I’ll find a place up high and stay out of it, unless the situation demands otherwise. I’d just like to keep an eye on things, since it’s inevitable they will battle.”

Maglor removes himself from the campsite deftly, with instructions for Telir on how to set up for the night. Telir watches him go, half in awe at the grace which Maglor sets up his weaponry.

It’s not long before the fighting begins, Telir hears it faintly in the distance. Telir clutches his lute close to his chest, sits by a fallen log and prays to Mandos to be kind to the fallen, prays to Nienna that neither Maglor nor Lord Elrond are numbered among them.

He doesn’t realise he falls asleep until someone shakes him awake. Telir jerks awake to see Maglor, hair trussed, but otherwise just as he was when he left.

“How was it?”

Maglor smiles, and there’s pride there, in his expression. “It’s been handled. Elrond will deal with the survivors; he knows what to do.”

“Good.” Telir says. And this really doesn’t help answer Telir’s question of what exactly was Maglor doing here if Lord Elrond can handle himself so easily.

Maglor is in a particular good mood as he asks, “Do you want to go now? Or we can stay the night, you deserve the rest after the rushed journey.”

Telir’s not tired, after his nap. He’s been waiting for this moment for days, instead, so he sits up properly.

“You’ve dealt with the bandits,” he looks at Maglor expectantly. “Will you sing your song now?”

Maglor’s mood dampens a little, but he doesn’t refuse. He pulls out his harp, sets it by the fallen log, and clears his throat.

Telir knows, at once, that this is not a song he could emulate. He could learn all the words and play the melody perfectly, but it will never be _his_ song the way it’s Maglor’s, who has lived it and who relives it every time he sings.

It’s a lament from the first King who died, to the victims of Morgoth, to the victims of the Feanorians, and of the Feanorians themselves - dying twice, once when they killed their own souls and a second when they finally returned to Mandos’ Halls.

He sings of what he lost his soul to, the Silmarils, and how close he came to recovering his soul, during his time with Elrond and Elros, before he threw all of that away as well. He sings of Maedhros, and there is a bitter streak, where it seems he doesn’t quite know whether to feel grief or hate for all that has passed between the two of them.

When Maglor finishes, there is no other sound in the forest. Telir’s heart beats rapidly in his chest, but not as rapidly as the way his brain spins to encompass all of what Maglor has just told, and all that he conveyed without telling through his music, and through those sad, lonely eyes.

“Well?” Maglor asks, and it feels wrong to break the silence. “Are you satisfied now? Do you understand?”

Telir opens his mouth, but his brain hasn’t caught up. He has no idea what to say to all of that? Words seemed too simple, a failure to convey the complexity that Telir feels, towards this elf who is maybe not a bloodthirsty monster, but who has certainly killed others and done wrong.

“Though that may have been who you are, that is two thousand years past. Who are you now?”

Telir jumps - that’s Lord Elrond stepping out from behind a tree, lines creased in concern on his face. Yet, in the time it takes Telir to recognise him, Maglor had thrown his harp onto Nemror.

Telir spins to Maglor, a cry of “Wait!” at his lips, but the ancient elf is already halfway across the field. 

Maglor disappears, somehow outruns both Elrond _and_ Telir even with a horse and a bunch of travel gear and weaponry to deal with.

Telir can’t help but feel the sting of betrayal, that Maglor would end up leaving just like that.

After half the afternoon searching, Elrond shook his head and led Telir back to the temporary campsite.

“It’s no use, he’s been wandering these parts for over 2000 years now and living a similar life in the forests for even longer. Once he’s gone, he won’t be found unless he wants to be.” Lord Elrond smiled bitterly, “And as long as I am here, he won’t want to.”

“Why?” Telir blurted. He shouldn’t pry, but he has everyone else’s versions of this story except Elrond’s. “What happened between the two of you?”

Lord Elrond shrugs. After a week with Maglor, somehow even Lord Elrond looks young, and that's not an adjective Telir ever thought he’d ascribe to a hero from the sunken continent.

“It’s hard to say,” Lord Elrond says softly. “Perhaps he regrets ever taking me and my brother into his care, perhaps I’d made a choice when I swore allegiance to High King Gil-Galad. It could be any number of things, something I’d said before the War of Wrath happened, when I still roamed the forest with him? I wouldn’t know, and he’s never given me an opportunity to ask.”

It occurs to Telir that Lord Elrond is operating under a vastly different set of assumptions.

“He doesn’t hate you!” Telir says, horrified. “I don’t think he’s avoiding you because of anything you did!”

Lord Elrond’s smile does not reach his eyes. “It’s alright I don’t mind it. It is enough just to know that he has been doing well, and that, even if for a time, he still delights in sharing music with company. It is enough, that even if it’s only one more person, that Maglor’s depth and kindness is revealed.”

“That’s not-”

“Telir,” Lord Elrond interrupts, his tone still calm, but there is a touch of firmness in it. The kind that says, _I know what you will say and I am ending the conversation_ _now_. In some ways, he is truly Maglor’s son. “It’s getting late and I must head back to the party now. Will you join us? I realise now I have unfairly sent you on a mission that has only caused stress. High King Gil-Galad’s Court is also filled with musicians, and I can make up for your lack of education these few weeks in the meantime, on the journey.”

Two weeks ago, Telir had wanted nothing more than that. This was what Telir had set out from Lothlorien for, isn’t it? To learn from the grand musicians?

He needs that education, he knows. But the glamour of the royal court has dissipated, and somehow, it’s the muddy trudge along the coast that has replaced that imagery. It’s Maglor, who sings to tell his stories, who sings to keep his family, his friends, alive on a lonely journey with no destination.

“I don’t know,” Telir admits truthfully. “I think I need time to think, to process some things first.”

Elrond nods, like he had expected that. “You will always be welcome in Imladris. And Lindon too, Gil-Galad is always eager for new music and new voices. Do what you feel you must.” He pauses, looking around in the woods again, “I am sure, once I am gone, you may yet find Maglor. That is a possibility, also.”

Telir watches Lord Elrond walk away, and he’s overcome with a sudden urge to cry. It's been a long day and he’d just lost his potential music mentor, but it’s not for himself.

How could Lord Elrond not know?

Maglor had come _all this way_ inland and close to Lindon, just because he couldn’t rationalise to himself that Lord Elrond would be safe against mere bandits.

And how could Maglor not see?

How could he run from Lord Elrond every time and not think, for once, through his stupid, self-hating mind that Lord Elrond wants nothing more than to see and talk to him again?

Telir sighed, picking up his lute to swing the strap of case across his shoulders. Time had slipped and his missed his own family, he missed his trees and the way the moon reflected upon the river. He’s spent too long with Noldor, who are all too confusing for him.

He’ll return home for a few months, sing the laments and traditional songs of Lothlorien, teach them a few new songs he’s learnt. He can take a break before he sets out again - whether to look for Maglor, or Lord Elrond, or go somewhere else completely, he doesn’t have to decide here and now.

He’s only taken a few steps before he shrugs the lute off his shoulders, removing the case. He stares at his instrument.

This journey hasn’t been for nought. In just a few days, Maglor had taught him more than he realised. At the heart of the song, it’s about the story you want to tell. The message you want the world to know.

Words come to his head, unasked for. They rush over him, in a steady cadence, and his fingers itches to turn these thoughts into notes. A father and a son - adopted, with a long history behind them, but this song isn’t about that history. It’s about unconditional love, the way they care for each other, so much that they fear rejection. The way they dance at each other, wanting nothing more than reconciliation, but each time held back only by their own doubts.

The song comes to him easier than he’d ever known, it’s barely an afternoon before he has the skeleton of a song complete.

A song he wants the world to know. And there’s nothing that spreads quicker than a hit song with the public.

Telir takes a step with renewed purpose, a tune at the tip of his tongue. He’ll head home for now, but he can take the time to detour at Imladris - and maybe every village he comes across on the way.

He can only hope it will be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
